Funny you're the broken one, but I'm the only one who needed saving
by sydneyshai
Summary: His father was gone. There are no more choices. An exploration of Stiles' impending breakdown from 3x10 and beyond. Eventual Stydia, and spoilers for all of season 3.
1. Chapter 1

_'Mom would have believed me.'_ Why had he said that? In the six years since she had died, Stiles had been so careful never to pit her memory against his dad. So much that he barely ever spoke about her with him, so.

_'Mom would have believed me.'_ Mom was also dead. Like Dad. Or how Dad would be shortly if they didn't find him before their psychotic English teacher slashed his throat and—

Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming and for once it wasn't Lydia. Someone else was hurting for once and it wasn't—

"Stiles. Stiles!" Scott's voice brought him rocketing back to that classroom. The classroom where his Dad wasn't anymore. He didn't remember falling to his knees, and he didn't remember starting to scream so why was he the one—oh.

He closed his mouth. Lydia was knelt next to him and this was so not how he'd imagined that, but right now it didn't matter because—

"They took my dad."

"Not they. She." Scott spat out from somewhere above him. His voice was clouded, he was still a wolf, and Stiles could see the blood dripping from his mouth to the ground. He sat back on his heels.

"Yeah. Plot twist, that." He muttered bitterly. It was a reflex, a battle shield, this sarcasm. He'd learned it from his mother. He glanced up at the broken window again.

"I really did think it was Harris this time." Scott's voice was faint. Lydia blinked and turned to the two of them, a hand still protectively grasping her throat. Stiles still didn't look away from the window.

"She knew." She whispered. Stiles knew she didn't need to. There was no one else in the room to hear them, his father was gone. He met her eyes for the first time and felt his emotions spike closer to a boiling point when he saw the fear housed there.

"She knew my something." Stiles couldn't bring himself to put a questions mark there but,

"Your something." Lydia gave him a pointed look.

"Oh._ Oh_."

"I'm the wailing woman. A Banshee." Her hands were clasped in her lap, and Stiles saw she didn't need to whisper, she had to. The garrote had left a red ring cut into her neck, not enough to kill her the way it would on his father, but deep enough.

"A whatshee?" Scott had calmed down enough to phase back. Stiles closed his eyes and sighed.

"A Banshee. They're celtic spirits that scream to signify that a death is coming." This was familiar, the rattling off of supernatural things, but tonight it was different. Tonight nothing was familiar, "They sometimes can be tied to a certain family—"

"I know." Lydia's voice was smaller than he'd ever heard it. Smaller than third grade, smaller than she had any right to be.

Stiles swallowed hard and closed his eyes again, tightly. He could feel himself snapping. Every second was a montage of not being able to shove the door open, of watching her pull him through the window. Of the last things they'd said.

"Look. I don't—we can't waste time explaining once thing to add to the pot of supernatural potion we've got cooking here." The words were ground out through his mouth, but Stiles hadn't chosen them. His father was gone, there were no more choices.

"Lydia, I'm sorry, but we really don't have time for an identity crisis right now. Congratulations, you've got superpowers. You're an omen of death, okay? You can predict death, and I really don't—I can't be around that right now."

The words kept coming, and now he was yelling. He was yelling and he never yelled. He was standing, pacing the classroom. The classroom where there were three. Three not four.

"You and Scott, you go, okay. You go, and you fix everything with your powers and your strength and all the things that I can't do." Someone had kicked a desk over, maybe it was him.

"I never wanted to be like you, and I don't ever want to. I've seen this shit for too long, but right now—"at some point he had begun to cry, "right now she's got my Dad. My dad, Scott. Me being human isn't going to cut it right now, the way it never will. So I need you. I need you to go, and find him, because I cannot lose another parent right now, and I absolutely cannot have the two of you to blame for it."

And suddenly the words were gone, there was nothing else Stiles could possibly say that could make this go away. Could make all the hurt and fear and anger that he had felt these past two years more tangible. He had felt it crackling inside of him for so long, and now it was almost crackling in the air, in the open. Somewhere, someone was heaving huge, wracking, sobs, and somewhere he knew it was him. Stiles couldn't meet Scott's eyes, and he dared not even glance in Lydia's direction.

His shoulders sagged, and he scrubbed both hands over his face. This was watershed, this was big. But there weren't any more words. Stiles' father was gone, and the choices had dwindled to a single path that he couldn't fit on.

"Just. Call me when you find the—or I guess I'll just hear you scream."

When he walked away, not even Lydia's calls could bring him back. His father was gone. There were no choices, there was no hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles was coming back into himself. It was slow, and there was still that mixture of anxiety and rage in the back of his mind, but he'd been living at about a four on the stress level scale since this all started, so he could deal. It was different though, he could tell. There was an urgency, a sense of needing to get the hell out of there that he'd never felt before and that terrified him. He was walking away, and he knew, he knew he had to. His father was gone. They needed to go, go and find him, and he couldn't do, he wasn't—

Maybe he wasn't entirely back into himself.

"Stiles. Stiles did you see—"

"Is Lydia alright? Where are—"

Allison and Isaac were stumbling over each other's voices in front of him. In front of the door. Stiles had made it to the front of the auditorium, and he could see the main exit just behind them.

If he looked to his right, Stiles knew he'd see inside, knew he'd see more death, more blood, more supernatural crap that he didn't have the space for anymore. He didn't have space for anything these days. Not love, not sadness, not weakness and for damn sure not for death. There just wasn't any more of anything inside. Stiles Stilinski was full to the brim and still leaking from every angle.

After a moment of silence that he didn't know he had sanctioned, Allison's face softened, and Stiles felt himself wince at the pity she gave. It was a long forgotten habit that he didn't know he still had.

"Stiles are you…what happened?" She took a step forward, and if she let go of Isaac's hand, then Stiles pointedly did not notice. He ducked his head.

"They're in Blake's room." He muttered, still peering over zealously at his shoes, "She, uh, she's the darach, so that's—that's new."

He couldn't, wouldn't look up. He didn't want to see it on someone else's face.

"Is Lydia—"

"Lydia's fine." He bit out, "She's got superpowers now like the rest of you, so she's absolutely perfect."

The words were back. Stiles could feel it rising again, the hurt, the anger. It was all laced with something else now, though. There was shame. Shame in himself , for his outburst in the classroom, for this rage that he didn't know what to do with anymore.

"She took my dad. Blake I mean. He was there first. I mean," he let out a cruel laugh, "He's the—"

"Guardian." Isaac finished. Stiles forced himself to look up, to meet their eyes.

Isaac's eyes were already giving him away, the gold seared back at him. Allison had a hand over her mouth, and for a warrior hunter princess, her eyes were suspiciously wet. She reached out, and Stiles dodged her touch.

"Don't. Okay? Just don't. I kind of—I fucked up back there, and I just—I need to go? There's nothing I can do right now with my human-y-ness, so I'm just. I'm done. I'll be at the hospital. Waiting for the body."

Stiles looked at them pleadingly. Allison had lost her doe-eyed look and replaced it with something much more sinister. A steely resolve stared back at him and he was reminded of her mother for a brief moment.

"Okay." She nodded a few times and never quite met his eyes. He could see she was already calculating, already reaching for the bow in her mind. Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked past them, so close to the door already.

"Stiles, you can't just leave—"

He wheeled back around, feeling the rage finally break over him, a tidal wave that he was powerless against. Powerless against everything else.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can, actually." He snapped, "Because, she took. My dad. One of the three people in my life that I actually—" Stiles paused and sucked in a deep breath. He threw his hands in the air.

"Look, it's not important anymore because he's as good as dead, and we all know it. And, it's really, really not important because the other two are—they're probably not reciprocating the feeling right now because I—"

He wasn't making sense out there. He knew it. The words were making sense in his head, in his heart, in his mouth, but then they got into the open and they were jumbled. It was just him. Just Stiles. Stiles, who could feel the panic rising again.

His father was gone, and Lydia was a fucking Banshee, and Scott was a werewolf, but that wasn't new. It was new that he had fucked it all up, and maybe even that was history repeating itself. All three of them had cared, and now after today they probably didn't. He had cared, and still did, but now he was alone.

Isaac took a step back, jaw jutted out, hands tensed at his sides.

"Because you're the only one who's lost somebody here." He snarled and Stiles bristled. The fangs weren't visible, but they were coming. And he didn't care. Rip him to shreds, look on the outside like the inside.

"No. I'm not, Isaac, but if you haven't noticed, I'm the one that's been running around picking up the pieces for everyone else the past two years. So sorry if I'm having one moment where I get to reconsider this cracked out voodoo wolf life that I. Didn't. Choose." Stiles' hands were grabbing at his hair and his eyes were shut again. Maybe if he just kept them shut—they were open again. Wide.

"And by the way, I'm the only one here that doesn't get the perks this comes with. I get all the shit, and I pick up after everyone else, and at the end of the day, I'm still just weak, right where I started. Right back with nothing."

Isaac snorted and took a step forward.

"Like you've never had the choice—"

Oh. The claws were out at least. Why wasn't he afraid? He was afraid all the rest of the time. Now he was angry. He was never angry. He never yelled. Refreshing.

"Isaac. Isaac stop. Let him go. It's not—let him go."

Worth it. That's what Allison had been thinking. Ripping him to shreds wasn't worth it. Scott would be upset, probably. Or not right now. Most likely not. But Allison had that whole 'touching Isaac" thing going right now, so why care what Scott thinks? Because Stiles was still just not worth it. Stiles closed his eyes again. Rage dissipates into exhaustions and he just barely makes out—

"I'll be at the hospital. Text me when someone's dead."

And as he pulled out of the parking lot, he wondered when exactly the talk of death had become a when, rather than an if.

* * *

**A/N Thanks so much for the positive responses on the first chapter. I'll be honest, this is very much more of a character study for me, and I hope you guys bear with that. I'm sorry not much happens in this one, but I promise it picks up next time. I don't know how long it will be, as I'm not planning any sort of huge canon divergent time story currently, but we'll see. Next chapter is Lydia. **


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Lydia watched Stiles leave. It was nice to be the one doing the watching for once instead of the other way around. The only problem was that for once, she was afraid that he might not be watching back anymore.

In the midst of all of it, all of this terrifying shit that was happening to her, she thought back to Allison's puppy love monologue. The one made all the way back before her life had become such a trainwreck. At the time, Lydia had thought it was childish, and later, once she learned the truth, she had thought it was utterly insane. But now, watching Stiles Stilinski leave, she was breathless.

Scott stayed silent for a moment before—

"I've never seen him like that. Ever." His voice was quiet, and Lydia bit back a smile. Even now, after everything he been through, Scott was still gentle as a puppy. She'd always thought that he and Stiles matched that way. Scott was a puppy, and Stiles just looked like one with his big brown eyes and wide lolling smile. It was mostly the eyes though. Even when he'd been calling her an omen of death, they never once steeled over. It was almost horrifying, except for the fact that it was Stiles.

Now was not the time for this. She could feel a fear creeping through her veins and promptly pushed it away. She was no longer human and helpless. She was a—a Banshee. Which meant there were rules. There was history and she was going to have concise answers. There was no more guesswork.

"Not even when his mom died." Scott continued, "He was panicked and afraid, but never angry."

Lydia nodded, looking down at her hands.

"I don't remember it." She admitted, ashamed, "He carried around that little book of medical information for so long, but I just thought he was doing a project. I never asked—I was such a bitch. I've been a bitch."

She looked back at the doorway and let out a shaky breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Scott stood up next to her and smiled sadly, offering her a hand.

"He wanted to know everything about it while it was happening. He's always been a research fiend." He replied, hoisting Lydia to her feet, "But it's not your—"

"Not my fault?" Lydia shot back, wiping her hands on her skirt primly, "Except that it is. Stiles kept saying that I could do something and I just thought he wanted me around so I ignored it. But now…now I know I could have helped. Found more than just a dead body with my omen of death-ness."

She ignored the part of her mind that told her she had wanted so badly to believe that he only wanted to include her. The part that warmed at the idea. Scott gave her a sympathetic look.

"Lydia, I know he didn't mean that. I mean, maybe it's true, but he didn't mean it as an insult. Right now he's just, he's…something."

Lydia laughed out loud in spite of herself.

"I know." She answered, still looking from the broken window to the door, "I just hope that we can un-something him."

Scott sighed heavily and gave her hand a squeeze.

"He's my brother. We will. I swear. But right now we need to find Allison and Isaac." He said carefully, "Something else happened at the recital and we need to figure out what the Alpha's next move will be. And Ms. Blake still needs to more guardians for sacrifice."

There was a hint of stress lacing his words and Lydia knew that she needed to snap him out of it. She could feel the gears turning in her head. They needed a plan, and quickly.

"Okay. Let's go." She said, pulling Scott out the door by the hand, looking back at him as they walked, "Allison has the map of the city's currents, and that's our key to finding the sacrifices. Isaac will have seen where the twins went."

Scott nodded and kept pace with her, letting go of her hand.

"Do you think they knew what was going to happen?" she asked, "It was Aidan that texted me to leave the concert." Scott shook his head.

"I don't think so. They aren't working together. She must have taken his phone in class or something."

That was the other thing.

"You're right." Lydia agreed, still letting her mind scan the options, "Blake said something about them. That she was trying to help. She went into this long definition about the word sacrifice. Back to the latin definition, as if I didn't already know, but essentially it was her way of saying she was only doing what was necessary."

Scott growled and clenched his fists beside her.

"Yeah, because killing innocent people is necessary. She's crazy."

Lydia pursed her lips and stopped dead.

"She said I was like her." She said sadly. Scott looked at her and shook his head furiously.

"No. You're not. You're not crazy, you've never been crazy. We know there's a reason now, alright? You're brilliant Lydia. We could never have gotten this far without you. You've saved my ass so many times, and you always have a plan. I don't know if—with all of this 'true alpha stuff I've been thinking and, if I had a pack, if I have to have a pack, I'd want you in it." He spoke fiercely, and Lydia could see the gold threatening to break into his irises. But this time, this time it was redder than she'd ever seen.

Lydia smiled. She'd never been a fan of the story of Hercules. Of the stories where people rise to the occasion and then live on as these heroes. Sure, hard work will get you where you're meant to be, but it won't take you to supernatural heights. At least, she'd believed that until the supernatural came crashing into her own life. And now that it's been there awhile, she really didn't see herself believing that anyone could rise to the occasion the way she knew Scott would.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me." She said. Scott smiled warmly and rolled his eyes.

"It's mostly Stiles to be honest, he says it enough that it's rubbed off." He admitted. Lydia gave him a look of discern and tried very hard to ignore the butterflies that erupted in her stomach. This was not the time, she had work to do. Focus was key.

Scott's smile fell slightly and he backtracked his words, holding his hands up as if to keep her at bay.

"I mean, I think that too—really, you're great, but Stiles, Stiles has thought that even before all of this started. Not that you should be in a pack, obviously—that would be really fucking weird, but, I mean, all the other—"

"Scott! Lydia! Oh thank God. We thought you'd already left—"

"We need to tell Derek what happened. The twins left right after it happened and I don't know where—"

Lydia had never been happier to see Isaac Lahey in her life. She'd never actually been happy to see Isaac, but it was beside the point. She may be a Banshee, but two werewolves would always be better than one. Scott was already beside Isaac whispering in hushed tones. Allison touched Lydia's arm gently.

"We saw Stiles." She told her quietly. Lydia flinched involuntarily.

"Did he tell you what happened?" she asked, the thought of having to recount what had happened in the classroom was taxing. Allison nodded, smoothing her hair back behind her ears.

"Yeah. Among other things." She answered, "I don't care that you're a Banshee, if you were worried about that. You're still my best friend even if you do sense death and all."

Lydia giggled and gave her an incredulous look.

"You dated a werewolf. I should think the lack of transformation I possess would be comforting."

Allison rolled her eyes and looked over at Scott in what Lydia sincerely hoped was not meant to be subtle. But now wasn't the time. It was never a good time for relationship problems in their lives. Lydia needed to remember that.

"Allison we need to look at that map. We have to find the Sheriff before—"

Lydia's voice caught. She couldn't finish that sentence. Allison nodded and felt around her pockets for the map. Pulling it out, she fished the blacklight from her bag.

"Do I just—"Lydia snatched it from her hands and knelt on the floor, quickly unfolding it and spreading it out on the ground in front of them. Allison held the light and scanned the map for the currents.

"Here." Lydia motioned to the most recently drawn X. "It's here. At the—" She swallowed hard, "At the hospital."

Allison gasped and looked at her with wide eyes.

"They're keeping him at the hospital? Isn't that where Stiles—"

"It makes sense, Doctors are the guardians of society." Lydia cut her off sharply. She didn't want to hear the words. Stiles was going to be, he had to be…they needed to get there now.

Allison gave her a look of understanding and then gasped, grabbing Lydia's forearm.

"Lydia, she's looking for guardians. If she's at the hospital—" Lydia's mouth dropped open and whirled around, wide eyed.

"And what better guardian than that of true alpha." She finished faintly. Allison nodded, slowly closing her eyes.

Lydia turned to look at Scott and got to her feet.

"We need to go. Now."


	4. Chapter 4

Jennifer Blake was standing in front of Stiles' Jeep. Except she wasn't in creepy Darach mode, she was in hot for teacher mode. All he'd done was pull into a parking spot and put the car in park. When he looked up, there she was.

The anger was back. She knew. She knew where his dad was, and yet she was here, for him. Stiles had just walked away from this whole situation, and like always, he was sucked right back in.

Jennifer was just—just standing there. Like she was waiting for him to make the next move. Stiles set his jaw. This was it. This was the choice—but it wasn't really a choice was it? There were no choices, his father was gone.

He got out of the car.

She was on him in an instant, and Stiles could feel cool blade pressed threateningly against his stomach.

"Stiles. I think we need to talk, dear. I'm very concerned about your home life." She whispered sweetly, added more pressure to her knife. Stiles blanched despite himself, and let out a growl he'd never heard from himself before.

"Where. Is. He." He snarled, looking around as though she might be hiding him in the bushes.

Jennifer smirked at him, pulling back, an iron grip still on his forearm.

"Soon enough. He's still breathing. For now." She took a step backwards, pulling Stiles with her, "Come talk to me, and he could stay that way."

Stiles screwed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. There were no choices.

"Okay. But I swear to god, if this is—if he's not okay, I'm going to personally find your Druid tree, cut it down, and use it for my fucking Yule Log this Christmas." The sarcasm was back again.

Jennifer smiled again, pulling him along towards the doors.

"Another creative threat. Is that why the pack keeps you around? To hear your petty human wit?"

Stiles gritted his teeth. How many times was it going to be thrown in his face today? He had never, ever regretted his decision back when Peter offered him the bite. He'd seen what it had done to Scott, what it had done to Derek's family. But, back then, when he'd had the choice, he'd declined it simply because he had a gut feeling, a sudden jump in his stomach that it would kill him, that he wasn't strong enough to handle it. He was an ideas guy, his power had always been in his mind, his wit, his head. It didn't belong in his body and somehow he'd known that. Having it thrown in his face time and time again wasn't helpful, but he'd made his choice, and some psychotic bitch mocking it would never make him reconsider.

They were in an abandoned nurse's classroom next to the morgue. Stiles had been ungracefully forced into a desk and Jennifer was leaned against the desk.

"There." She said quietly, "Is this better, more familiar?"

Stiles ignored her, feeling his jaw tense again. What the hell was going on? He focused on clenching and unclenching his fists. Something else to focus on besides attempting to rip her throat out. He would lose.

"Can we just get this over with? Is this the part where you reveal the master plan and I end up being the sad collateral damage of the epic three way battle between the Alphas, you, and the ragtag teenage underdogs? Pun intended by the way."

If he was going to be stuck here, it was going to be a conversation he was proud of at least. Jennifer smirked at him again and took a step forward, crouching to his level.

"Very good Stiles, as a matter of fact, it is." She whispered.

Stiles matched her smirk and leaned forward, placing his chin in his hands.

"The underdogs win." His words were followed by a hard slap across the face. He could almost hear the bruise begin to form across his cheekbone. Warriors.

"Don't you understand that's what I want?" Jennifer's cool exterior dropped away as she let out a shriek, pinning his hands to the desk, "I'm trying to help. This is the only way you stand a chance." Her last words were a sickly whisper, and Stiles felt a spike of anger from deep in his stomach, like fire in his lungs.

"By murdering innocent people? Adding to the body count?" he shot back, and Jennifer pulled her hands from his as though she'd been burned.

"No. By sacrificing them." She snarled, pacing in front of him, "And that's where you come in Stiles. I need your help, you see. I can't complete the ritual without you." Her calm façade was back.

Stiles leaned back in the chair, unimpressed.

"Need help brainstorming the other two guardian sacrifices?" he asked bluntly.

Jennifer gave him an incredulous look, and stepped back in front of him.

"Have you really not figured it out yet?" she asked, she was staring deeply into his eyes, searching Stiles' eyes for…something. It was disconcerting.

"The Guardian isn't another category for sacrifice, Stiles. The Guardian is the sum of the other four." She continued, circling him, "The Guardian is one person. The one person that represents all four in the lives of those the sacrifices are for. It's you, Stiles."

Stiles swallowed. She was back at eye level with him, running her hands back over his in a way that was meant to be comforting.

"The Guardian is the ultimate sacrifice."

He pulled his hands back from hers. This could not be happening.

"You didn't take my father because he was a guardian, you took him to get to me." He realized. It all made sense, and he was inexplicably grateful that Mrs. McCall was safe. Jennifer nodded slowly.

"Very good. You catch on quickly. I'm surprised you didn't discover Ms. Martin's secret sooner. I know I'm surprised that I didn't. It all fits." Jennifer mused, "Banshees even have a reputation for being fairly unattractive."

The anger was spiking, and all evening he'd felt it, but never like this. Just hearing her speak about Lydia made him so angry he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe. It was a physical anguish, as though gravity was increasing tenfold and something deep inside of him said that it shouldn't be this difficult to feel this way. That something was off and—

Jennifer's hand was on fire. With real flames. And she was laughing. Stiles watched in horror as his anger reduced to disbelief and a strong feeling of 'what the living fuck is going on?'

"Of course, it will be a shame to extinguish such a spark." Jennifer continued coolly, the flames on her hand extinguishing as suddenly as they had appeared, "Here we are in the most energy barren spot in Beacon Hills and it still manages to break through."

Stiles looked away in horror as the charred flesh began to heal itself. He was reminded of the Jungle and the mountain ash last spring. What was it Deacon had said? 'Be the spark?' His mind was racing. He wasn't a spark. Scott was the spark. Scott was the true alpha. It had to be.

"Look, I'm flattered that you think I'm the Guardian and all, it's a great vote of confidence but I really think you've got the wrong person."

Jennifer looked at him, eyes wide, the skin on of her hand nearly back to normal. She leaned forward, whispering in his ear.

"Why are you so adamant not to believe? After everything else, what makes you so hesitant to step into your own greatness?" she whispered. She was circling him again and Stiles shivered.

"You've clearly made no effort to manage your own skills, so why not let your death be meaningful. Let it stand for something." She crooned. Stiles glowered at her and stood up, fists at his sides.

"If you think I'm going to just sit here and listen to some bullshit about Guardians and whatshit, I'm going. I can find my father some other way. We've found your pattern. We can find the bodies." He snapped, starting for the door.

Jennifer made no move to stop him and instead began ticking off on her fingers.

"Healer. How many times have you helped Scott heal his physical wounds? Helped heal your father's emotional ones? Warrior. It's a stretch with your frail human body, but you've seen battle, there's no denying it." Her voice had taken on a singsong quality that quite honestly scared the shit out of him.

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled back around to stare at her. The rage was rising again and she was making sense. Every word coming from her mouth was true, and by the quirk of her lips, she knew it too. He suddenly registered the crashes coming from outside. There was fighting, they were fighting in the halls. Someone was here. Someone had come for him and his father. It only added fuel to the flames that were licking up his body, that were consuming him in tongues of rage.

"Philosopher. Even I knew that was the easiest one, Stiles." Jennifer continued, stepping closer. They were almost nose to nose, "You've taught your friends everything about this world, and until now it seems you never knew you truly had a place in it."

Stiles was shaking with anger and the crashes and unmistakable sounds of werewolves fighting were getting closer. Jennifer's fingers walked their way up his chest and she tilted her head forward.

"Virgin—"

"Are you sure because there was a drag queen that really, really wanted to blow me behind a dumpster a couple weeks back so we're kind of toeing the line a little bit with—"

Defending his virginity was a sad habit that apparently did extend to life or death situations.

Jennifer snarled, cutting him off with a harsh slap to the face and forcing the blade of her knife to his throat.

"Virgin." She repeated, "And every second we waste here is another second your father is struggling somewhere. Struggling to breathe, Stiles. Are you absolutely certain you want to be an orphan—"

She was interrupted by a deafening crash outside. The ceiling shook and the old, dirty blackboards rattled from their place on the floor. One of the wolves let out a chilling whine. Jennifer looked from the door back to him.

"Sounds like they're losing, Stiles." She sounded almost desperate, "Do you really want to be responsible for their deaths? For your father's? For Scott's? For Lydia's?"

Each person was her knife. It was her knife plunging into the rage and anger and hurt and Stiles didn't have a choice. There hadn't been a choice since she took his father, and he'd known that. She'd known that. He closed his eyes and breathed hard through his nose.

"Okay." He ground out through gritted teeth. "Do it. For them."

The blade disappeared, and Stiles had always wanted his death to be sudden, to have no time to prepare. But, he prepared. He wouldn't remember this moment later, blocked out by the adrenaline maybe. But he stood there, waiting, ready for this sacrificial death. Somewhere, Lydia was screaming.

But death didn't come. Stiles opened his eyes and bolted backwards. Jennifer was on fire again. It was engulfing her, and Stiles was suddenly so, so tired. His whole body sagged as he watched her burn. She was charring all over, and Stiles definitely could not handle that kind of gore right now.

Jennifer was screaming. She was screaming in that chanting voice that Lydia said she'd heard before the bodies were taken. The one on the recording of the piano teacher.

"This shouldn't be possible." She rasped out, "You'll overpower us all." Stiles took a step back again. She was crumpling, turning to ash.

"Stiles! Oh thank God." He whirled towards the door, looking for something, anything to defend himself with. Something collided with his chest and he backed away, finally letting the exhaustion he felt take him to his knees.

"Stiles. Stiles please don't. Are you hurt?" Lydia was kneeling in front of him. She was covered in blood splatters, and her dress was torn. She had tear tracks running down her face, and she was beautiful. She was always beautiful.

Stiles shook his head. Jennifer had left him with some slashes in his stomach, but nothing a few stitches wouldn't fix. The room was spinning. He might have just set a person on fire with his mind, and Lydia. Lydia was here and she was okay, and it was unlikely that she thought he was an asshole, or crazy.

Lydia was looking past him as Jennifer's ashen remains.

"What happened? Is that—"Stiles shook his head vigorously. He couldn't talk about it just yet. It wasn't—he could barely form a coherent sentence right now.

"I can't, please—later." He managed. Focus on one thing. Keep your thoughts steady. Breathe. He watched as a tear fell onto Lydia's skirt, and it registered as his own. Lydia took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes.

"Stiles. Stiles we got him. Your dad—he's fine. He needs stitches and rest, but, we got him." There were stars in her eyes as he looked into them, "I found him before it was too late."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and leaned their foreheads together. His father was going to be okay. He wasn't an orphan, they'd found him in time—Lydia had found him in time. And now she was here, and so close, and he'd always wanted this, but now he didn't want it unless she did. She was so much more than the pretty girl with the dinosaur lunchbox that she'd labeled scientifically. She was a person, a beautiful, brilliant, person.

"You got him. You got him." If he repeated it enough it would stay. It would make him better, keep him from falling into the darkness that so desperately wanted to engulf him. Lydia nodded and let the smile fall from her eyes to her mouth. She looked back into his eyes, and bit her lip. Stiles could feel more tears slipping down his face. He didn't remember the last time he'd had a reason for happy tears. Now that it was here he wished for more. Lydia wiped a tear with her thumb and placed one hand on the back of his necked before—

Lydia was kissing him. Her mouth was on his, and it was like he had always imagined. She was warm, and soft, and he needed to snap back into this or he was going to lose her. He let his mouth move with hers, softly. He was a teenage boy, he'd always imagined this as wildly passionate, but this was different. It was warm, comforting. Lydia's hands tangled in his hair, and his fell to cup her cheek as he coaxed her mouth open with his. They didn't battle for dominance, there was an easy rhythm that they fell into, and he could feel the air around them crackling with…something. The word was becoming something of a theme with them.

Considering he'd just almost been sacrificed by his English teacher, he couldn't say he was cursing his need for air as they pulled apart, but it wasn't exactly a highlight right now. Lydia smoothed another hand through his hair, she'd never looked more beautiful.

He went to say something, anything to keep this happening, to make it happen again, forever, but the darkness was coming. His shoulders were sagging and he couldn't fight it any longer.

He just made out Lydia grasping his hand and saying his name before he hit the ground.

* * *

**A/N I love hearing the feedback and it's great to know I'm getting the characterizations right! I'm sorry that this is such a simple solution, but I really really don't want to get into all the details we're going to be getting in the next few episodes. This story is about Stiles and Lydia as characters, and it's driven by that more than all of the wolf-y plot stuff. So please understand that. :)**


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